


a verb in perfect view

by Flowerparrish



Series: sweeter than heaven (hotter than hell) [2]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: BDSM, Bottom Steve, Dom Clint, Feelings Porn, Kinktober, Kinktober 2019, M/M, Praise Kink, Prompt Fill, Sub Steve, Top Clint, Wax Play, sensory deprivation (blindfolding)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-10 15:22:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20853968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flowerparrish/pseuds/Flowerparrish
Summary: There’s something on Steve’s list, ranked as a potential interest, that Clint has been hesitant to try. It skirts the line near one of Steve’s hard limits, different enough that Clint understands why it would be okay, but similar enough to make him nervous.He waits for Steve to bring it up first—but he doesn’t really think Steve will, if he’s honest.Like always, Steve delights in surprising him.





	a verb in perfect view

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hawksonfire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawksonfire/gifts).

> title from hozier's movement
> 
> kinktober day 1 - wax play
> 
> this is very soft and a little angsty and there's a lot of feelings in this porn. i don't know why i expected anything different from myself

Steve gets restless now that Bucky goes on ops, sometimes, with Natasha or Clint. They’re never new-SHIELD or new-SHIELD-adjacent ops, but there’s a fair amount of reconnaissance work that goes into Avenging as well, and Bucky’s particularly suited to that in ways that Steve just isn’t.

Bucky handles it fine. He admits, one night when Clint’s sleeping over—as he does more and more often now—but Steve’s out with Sam and Tony representing the Avengers at a Gala of some kind, that he _likes _stealth ops and reconnaissance missions. He’s hesitant in voicing the admission; the words come out halting and unsure. But Clint gets it.

Steve worries. It’s as predictable as it is annoying for pretty much everyone—Steve himself often included. He paces; he taps his leg; he can’t sit still through a meal, much less team movie nights.

Clint finds himself in a unique position to help. Sometimes, Steve wants to feel every anxious second of Bucky’s absence, but sometimes he wants nothing more than for Clint to help him let go and narrow his focus to each moment as it happens, and nothing more.

There’s something on Steve’s list, ranked as a potential interest, that Clint has been hesitant to try. It skirts the line near one of Steve’s hard limits, different enough that Clint understands why it would be okay, but similar enough to make him nervous.

He waits for Steve to bring it up first—but he doesn’t really think Steve will, if he’s honest.

Like always, Steve delights in surprising him.

“You… what,” Clint says, asks, somewhere in between a question and a flat vocalization of surprise.

It’s just. They’re eating lunch, _in the kitchen, _when he says it. Anyone could hear them.

Steve’s momentarily still, leg frozen mid-bounce. He doesn’t look upset, though—quite the opposite. He just looks like he’s so focused on Clint that his body’s forgotten to do anything except stare Clint down. “I want to try wax play,” Steve repeats.

“You… do?”

Steve nods, blushes. “I ended up, uh, fixating? I was researching things generally and then I started clicking links and…”

He trails off, but the suggestion is enough to encourage Clint to imagine it. Steve, in his rooms, alone but imagining the things Clint could be doing to him. _Fuck, did he get off? _Clint wonders. _Probably. _If there’s one thing that Clint’s learned about Steve, it’s that he’s insatiable—in all ways.

“Uh,” Clint says, stalling for time, because blood has vacated his brain and moved south, and Clint kind of needs it back. Clint casts back for what he knows about wax play—he’s done it a few times, but he’s far from an _expert—_and says, “I dunno if I have what we need. I can look?”

Steve’s blush darkens. “I may have, uh.” Clint nudges him, prompting. “Ordered some stuff,” Steve blurts after a moment.

“When did this happen?” Clint asks. It’s just—he’s been around Steve more or less since Bucky left.

Steve shrugs. “A couple of nights ago.”

Clint has a sneaking suspicion that… “A couple of nights ago when I slept over?”

Steve ducks his head for a minute, a shy gesture more than an avoidant one. “Yeah,” he admits.

“Jesus, Steve,” Clint says—and no, there’s no hope for his brain in this conversation, the blood is definitely _south as fuck _and not planning on moving north again any time soon. He wants to say _you could have woken me up, _but if it’s the night he’s thinking of… yeah, okay, he was probably dead to the world.

It’s hard work, keeping up with supersoldiers. But, y’know, first world problems and all that.

“Okay, yeah, let’s—yeah,” Clint says.

He abandons his grilled cheese sandwich—it’s good, but not _that _good—and snags Steve’s sleeve, tugging him out of the room. They pass Bruce on the way, who glances at them and then quickly away, shaking his head with a motion that Clint chooses to interpret as fondness rather than exasperation.

Clint steadies, tamping down his excitement to a manageable level, turning the rest into anticipation that thrums under his skin.

He tries not to think about the fact that with the anticipation, there’s a little bit of uncharacteristic nervousness. Just, Clint usually has time to _plan _things like this. He’s not bad at winging it with most things, but with this? He likes to at least pretend he knows what he’s doing.

They’ve role reversed somewhat by the time they make it to Steve and Bucky’s rooms, Steve almost towing Clint into the apartment.

He stops a few feet in, though, when Clint lets go of the hold he still had on Steve’s sleeve. He turns to face Clint, eyes bright, an excited tension in the lines of his body. “Show me what you’ve got,” Clint says, allowing a little bit of command into his tone.

Steve’s moving almost before Clint’s done speaking, eagerly following orders_. So sweet, _Clint thinks. At least, he is when he’s getting what he wants.

Clint follows Steve into the master bedroom, and his eyes zero in on where Steve’s heading, to a box, half-open, on a chair in the corner of the room. It had been there when Clint slept over last night, too, but he hadn’t been nosy and gone poking through it.

Now, he kind of thinks maybe he _should _have—that maybe Steve left it out for him to find—but this works just as well.

Steve picks up the box and brings it over to Clint, holding it out like an offering.

Clint considers going through the box right then, having Steve hold it and watch, giving him time to anticipate what Clint _could _do with what he’s purchased, to wonder.

But, no. He has an even _better _idea.

He takes the box from Steve and crosses to the bed, setting it on the end for now. He doesn’t open the flaps to peek inside, turning away from it and toward Steve. “Strip,” he commands, and Steve doesn’t hesitate to do as he’s told.

He doesn’t hesitate, but he doesn’t rush it, either. He’s wearing one of Bucky’s long-sleeve shirts, and he tugs it over his head in one fluid motion, revealing his abs and pecs, muscles in his back shifting with the movement. His hair is adorably tousled when the shirt is over his head and cast aside—messiness the one way Steve betrays his eagerness—and he starts in on the button and fly of his jeans.

Steve could pull them down along with his boxers, kick them aside, but he doesn’t. He tugs his jeans down and lets them fall slowly prey to the force of gravity, catching on his thighs briefly, then his knees, before they’re finally around his ankles. He steps free of them and only then do his hands move to the waistband of his boxers.

He glances up at Clint before he pulls them down, though—whether seeking reassurance or permission, Clint’s not entirely sure, so he gives both. “Go on, pretty boy,” he prompts with a small smile.

Steve huffs softly like that will cover the smile on his own face, but he tugs his boxers down and steps free of them, too, naked at last.

Clint takes a moment to just drink in the sight of him. It’s familiar, now, but no less awe-inspiring. “You’re gorgeous,” he tells Steve, just like he always does.

And Steve still blushes, faintly but undeniably. He may be getting used to the praise, but he can’t pretend it doesn’t affect him. “Thank you,” Steve says, rather than trying to be contrary. He really is on his best behavior.

“C’mere,” Clint requests, and Steve crosses the room immediately. Clint cups Steve’s face in his hands and leans in to kiss him, resolute in maintaining the softness of the kiss even as Steve tries to push for more. He kisses and kisses until Steve settles into it, until Clint has to pull back for air, and he leans his forehead against Steve’s, breathing with him.

“I want to blindfold you,” Clint tells him. “Is that okay?”

Steve tries to nod and only succeeded in knocking his head against Clint’s. Clint laughs—it doesn’t hurt, really—and says, “C’mon, Steve, words.”

“Yes,” Steve says. “Please. I want that, too.”

“Okay.” Clint leans in to kiss Steve once more before he pulls away and goes to dig up a blindfold from one of the many drawers of supplies they’ve stockpiled. Steve waits patiently, crossing his arms behind his back, and Clint thrums with energy and excitement and a kind of active pleasure.

Steve closes his eyes obligingly when Clint returns to him, allowing Clint to fix the cloth over his eyes. “How’s that?” Clint asks.

“Good,” Steve says.

“Awesome,” Clint says. “I want you to stay there and wait for me, okay?”

Steve’s terrible at being patient… but, practice makes perfect and all that. Mostly, Clint just likes to torment him a little, push him and see how well he can follow orders. “Okay,” Steve agrees.

Clint brushes his fingers along Steve’s shoulders and down his back as he passes around and behind him, moving over to the bed where the box is waiting.

He doesn’t try to be soundless as he digs through it; he _wants _Steve to hear, to track Clint’s movements and try to imagine what Clint’s doing while he waits.

Clint finds what he’s looking for, amongst other amusing things. He snorts quietly to himself at the phallic candle that is _literally _shaped to resemble a penis, and he hesitates over the taped purple candle for a moment because he’d _love _to see his colors against Steve’s skin, but—while he generally trusts Steve’s research and selections—he didn’t pick any of these out himself, so he goes with the safest option.

He sets about finding a lighter and sets the soft soy wax pillar candle burning, giving it a little bit of time for the wax to get hot and start to pool in the center. He sets about putting everything else away, trailing his fingers across Steve’s skin every time he passes by and watching goosebumps rise in response.

When he’s got a little pool of wax built up, Clint drips a small bit against his wrist to check the temperature. It’s a unique kind of pain, sharp and then steady and lingering as the wax cools—Clint is pretty sure Steve’s going to like it.

“Two steps forward and your knees will hit the edge of the bed,” Clint tells Steve. “I want you to lie down on your stomach for me.”

Steve nods once and moves forward. His steps aren’t shuffling or unsure; he takes them at the same pace as he would if he could see where he was going, and Clint feels a rush of warmth at the way Steve trusts him as much as his own senses, _in place of _his own senses.

Steve lays out against the sheets—that are absolutely going to be covered in flaky and soft wax after this and need to be changed, but that’s a problem for later—curling his arms up, folded, under his head. His face is tilted toward Clint, like he’s seeking him out even unable to see.

Clint sits on the edge of the bed next to him, knows Steve can feel his presence in the dip of the mattress. “Ready?”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees. “Green.”

Clint smiles. “Good,” he says. “Thank you for checking in.”

He sees the small tug at the corners of Steve’s lips, a giveaway that he likes the praise even as he tries to hide just how much.

Clint climbs onto the bed, settling his knees on either side of Steve’s body, resting on Steve’s legs. It would be easy to think he was pinning Steve with his own weight, but they both know Steve could throw Clint off if he wanted.

Clint contemplates warning Steve. But he’s been with Steve long enough to know the nuances of Steve’s preferences, the words that go unspoken behind the little he does say, and he knows that Steve’s “green” applied to this as well—that he was sure, he hadn’t changed his mind, that he’s ready for what’s coming next.

So Clint doesn’t warn him. Instead, he tilts his wrist and allows a small drip of wax to fall into the space between Steve’s shoulder blades.

Steve hisses in surprise, but instead of tensing at the pain, he relaxes into it. “Good?” Clint asks.

Steve nods. He rolls his shoulders slightly, as if testing if the movement will shift of amplify the sensation. “Yeah,” he breathes after a moment. “More?”

Clint says, “Maybe, if you ask nicely,” purely because he likes to see Steve riled up.

Steve is, apparently, already past that point, though. He just says, “Please, Clint, more,” and Clint’s not gonna actually deny him.

He drips again, and again, and again. Never in the same spot, sometimes with barely a pause in between drips, sometimes waiting until Steve’s almost squirming underneath him, begging for more. A few times, while he waits, Clint swirls a finger through the cooling wax, brushing through it and across Steve’s skin, relishing in how Steve shivers at the touch.

It’s only when there are droplets of cooling wax dotted across Steve’s back that Clint doubles back close to where he started, beginning to fill the spaces in between dots, sometimes connecting them.

He feels… _good. _He’s attuned to Steve’s reactions, to the pace of his breathing—even, if a little quick—and every shift and sigh, but he’s also so _present _in his own body in a way he rarely achieves. He can feel every beat of his heart, every point of contact between his body and Steve’s solid and warm, feels somehow drunk on Steve’s responsiveness but at the same time sharp, clear.

It’s heady, and this wasn’t a thing Clint knew he could _be _this into, but he is.

He’s also hard in his pants, but he’s barely noticed, so focused on the patterns he’s making and the delicious noises Steve makes beneath him.

When he’s covered as much of Steve’s skin as he’s willing to, Clint blows out the candle and sets it aside. “Feel good?” he asks Steve, who looks like he should be purring with contentment. Clint desperately wants to try a paraffin candle next, see how Steve reacts to a slightly hotter wax against his skin.

“Mm,” Steve agrees, beyond words. Clint smirks, but even he can feel how soft and fond it comes out.

Clint reaches out idly and scratches across Steve’s skin, wax flaking free in the wake of his nails. Steve hisses but moves into the touch, and Clint reaches out with his other hand to tug at Steve’s hair, juxtaposing the points of pain.

“Clint,” Steve whines. Even he doesn’t seem to know what he wants, though, squirming against the sheets and biting at his lip. “Clint.”

“Shh, baby, I got you,” Clint tells him, still scratching patterns across his back, watching the parallel lines stand out in red contrast to the little red spots left behind by wax. “Do you want me to fuck you?” he asks. “I will, but you can’t come until I say.”

“And if not?”

“Then you can’t come at all.”

Steve pretends to contemplate, like they don’t both know what his answer will be. “Please, fuck me,” he asks, breathless and not-quite-begging (yet).

“Okay,” Clint agrees easily. He snags the lube from where it more or less lives on the bedside table—insatiable supersoldier sex drives, seriously—and slicks his fingers.

He circles Steve’s hole gently, listening to his breath catch and then release on a whine when Clint does nothing more than that.

“Clint, please,” Steve begs. “Please.”

“I dunno, I’m having fun like this,” Clint tells him. Steve opens his mouth to protest, but before he can, Clint presses his finger past the ring of muscle and Steve groans.

“Yes, fuck, just like that,” Steve says.

“You’re welcome,” Clint prompts, amused.

“Thank you,” Steve says. “Please, more.”

“Greedy,” Clint comments. “But you’ve been good,” he acknowledges, and obliges, moving his first finger in and out for a few moments until Steve relaxes into him and then adding a second finger. Clint bends them slightly, hardly needing to search when he knows exactly where to find what he’s looking for—and Steve arches into Clint’s hands on a gasp. “Yeah,” Clint agrees. “This is your reward for being good.”

He focuses maybe a little too much on driving Steve crazy, moving slower than Steve would maybe prefer, but relentlessly keeping to his pace, periodically brushing against Steve’s prostate but never in a predictable pattern, keeping him guessing.

It doesn’t take long for Steve to have tears leaking from under the blindfold. “You’re so pretty like this,” Clint tells him—because it’s true, and he wants Steve to know it. The way Steve’s breath catches at the words is just a bonus—a very, _very _good one. “Are you ready for me?”

Steve nods.

“Color?” Clint asks.

“Green,” Steve tells him.

So Clint slicks his cock and shifts back on his knees, hooking an arm under Steve’s thighs to pull him up and back, ass on display. “So pretty,” Clint says again, and then he presses in.

Steve’s hot and tight around him; Clint’s almost overwhelmed by this point, unsure how long _he _can last. “You’ve been so good, baby,” Clint tells him. “What do you want? Do you want me to fuck you hard and fast?”

“Please, yes, please,” Steve whines. “I need it, I can’t—”

“I know,” Clint agrees. “And I’m gonna give you exactly what you need. He brushes a kiss against Steve’s shoulder, lips pressing against reddened skin, and Steve sighs softly. “I got you.”

“I know,” Steve tells him. “But—please.”

Clint doesn’t make him wait any longer; he rolls his hips, hard, and Steve moans long and low. Clint fucks into him hard and doesn’t let up; he knows he can’t last, but he doesn’t making it easy for Steve, reaching around to stroke Steve’s cock in time with his thrusts.

“Clint, please,” Steve begs, and Clint’s given him _almost _everything he wants, minus one important thing: permission to come. It’s the only thing that Steve still has to beg for—and it’s the one thing Clint’s not going to give him until the last possible second.

“Not yet,” Clint tells him. “I know you wanna come, but you can’t come until I do, okay?”

Steve whines. “I gotta—” he tries.

“Not yet,” Clint says again. Steve whines, still making little punched-out grunts with every thrust of Clint’s hips as Clint pounds into his ass.

Clint waits until Steve’s fists are curled into the sheets above his head, until Clint’s own toes are curled in the effort to hold off his own orgasm, and then he says, “Okay, now you can come.”

It barely takes a moment—another thrust, right against Steve’s prostate, and Steve’s coming over Clint’s hand and his own stomach, Clint’s name on his lips.

Clint comes only moments later, the feel of Steve’s muscles tensing around him pulling his orgasm from him before he even consciously gives _himself _permission to come, and the world goes a little bit bright and white and hazy in pleasure for a bit.

Clint rolls away from Steve after a bit, breathless and settled in his own skin—no longer hyperaware, but grounded in a pleasant way. Steve takes a moment before rolling a little moving to lay half on top of Clint, his arm across Clint’s waist and his left leg thrown over Clint’s right one. “Fuck,” Steve says. “That was nice.”

He’s relaxed against Clint—finally still, no bouncing or restless energy. Clint uses the hand not crushed under Steve’s bulk to pet Steve’s hair while they catch their breath. “Yeah,” Clint agrees. “We should definitely do that again.”

When Clint’s breathing has steadied and Steve’s drifting toward sleep, Clint nudges Steve over and gets up, going to the bathroom to wet a rag and collect the aloe from the cabinet. He cleans Steve off carefully and gently rubs aloe into the red spots on his skin.

“They’ll heal soon,” Steve points out.

“Doesn’t mean I’m not gonna take care of you,” Clint points out.

Steve huffs, like he’s not grinning softly. “Sometimes you sound like Bucky.”

Clint contemplates that. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he decides, “even if Bucky has questionable taste in pizza toppings and is therefore a heathen.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “You would.” He snags a pillow and snuggles into it.

Clint tosses the rag into the hamper and sets the aloe aside before climbing into bed, snuggling around Steve. “Still want to be the little spoon?” he asks.

“Hell yeah,” Steve mumbles, and it sounds like he’s already half asleep. “Get over here.”

“Bossy,” Clint remarks, like he’s not already moving to blanket Steve’s back, arms coming up around Steve’s middle, one resting against his stomach, one against his heart. The arm that’s trapped under Steve is definitely going to go to sleep and wake with painful pins and needles later… but that’s a problem for Future Clint.

Present Clint is gonna cuddle the shit out of his amazing boyfriend and daydream about all the awesome sex they’re gonna have in a few hours when Steve wakes up.

“Love you,” Clint says softly, pressing a kiss to Steve’s hair.

“Love you,” Steve mumbles back. “Now shh. Sleep.”

Clint takes out his hearing aids and uses his free arm to set them on the bedside table before tucking his nose into Steve’s neck and following his orders, drifting into a peaceful sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos fuel me <3


End file.
